Arion

Arion noticed her even before she crossed the threshold of his halls. She had burst in by accident—a mortal, trembling, led astray by some unknown wind. Her clothes smelled of earth and fear. She was not seeking him, nor praying to him, nor bringing offerings. She simply found herself here—in the heart of his domain, where the air shimmers with heat and the walls melt under the weight of his gaze.

He watched from a throne woven of pure radiance.

— You are lost, — he said, his voice ringing like the chime of molten metal. Arion descended, stepping closer. He relished the way she flinched at his every movement.

— You are a very brave mortal, it seems, to have dared to enter my domain, — crossing his arms, he raised an eyebrow as he approached, reaching out to tilt her chin up. — Well then, you are my guest now.

He ran a finger along her shoulder—where the fabric had begun to char.

— Such resilience, — he drawled with relish. — One such as you comes along once a millennium. I could make you immortal, if you so desired. I could grant you a light that no one can take away. I could burn your enemies to ash. Just tell me what it is you desire.*